


The One That Starts With a Nun and Does Not End With Docking

by Davechicken, ElDiablito_SF



Series: Godstiel and Crowleypants (Do The Sex A Lot) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Docking, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Flogging, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley summons Cas again to his love den, where they proceed to have lots of kinky sex.  But sometimes when things are going too smoothly in the bedroom, inconvenient things get in the way.  Like... ew... feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One That Starts With a Nun and Does Not End With Docking

**Author's Note:**

> We can't believe we wrote so much porn. Actually yes we can. Nevermind.

It starts with a very confused looking nun. She's standing by the pearly gates, waiting to be let in. Waiting to be let in with a message, she says, that's for the man in charge alone. Says it was so important she had to die for it, but that she was pleased to do God's bidding.

In her hands is a note on rich vellum, sealed with a heavy wax marker. If you look at the marker closely it says 'On His Majesty's Sexy Service'. The writing on the front is in a precise, spiky hand in glowing red.

_Castiel._

Oh, of course, Castiel thinks recognizing the writer from the lettering. Even the way he draws the “L” implies little devil tails, not to even mention what he does to the letter “S”.

_My deliciously deviant angel, I hope you like the nun I sent. I wasn't sure if all dogs go to heaven or not, so I picked a bitch instead._

_The King of Hell cordially insists upon your presence. You are to report forthwith to the following coordinates. If you are followed, I will level Disneyland, and you will never ride Space Mountain naked again._

_Yours,_

_Crowley._

Castiel grins. But whatever is he to do with a dead nun? Resurrect her? Let her stay? She looks ridiculous in that penguin outfit, either way, so he moves his hand and disintegrates her habit into the ether. There, nakedness is next to godliness.

"Thank you for your service," he tells her and he's off to follow the precise coordinates left him by his demonic lover.

Crowley has spared no expense. He has the most fabulous recreation of his favourite torture pit lovingly duplicated (with some additions) in his own private area. The fact that it's in hot pink leather with black accents is something the first two interior designers regretted querying.

"Cas," he calls out, from his magnificent throne resplendent with actual snarling skulls of beasts few would recognise. "You're late. I thought you read at the speed of God." He dances his ankle over his knee.

"I had to dispose of your messenger," Cas replies, amicably approaching the throne, shedding his suit jacket in his steps' wake. Time is money, after all. "Or rather, dispose of her outfit. I did not approve of it. Shapeless, really."

He places one hand on Crowley's knee, fingers gently pressing into the flesh there.

"Hello Lover."

"I thought that was how all nuns dressed?" He shrugs. "Nuns are penguins and monks are camels?"

The fingers on his knee send a thrum of heat straight up to his cock and he has to fight not to squirm. The barest tell on his implacable face.

"Is that how you approach a King?" he asks, instead, eyes flicking down over him and to the floor below.

"Don't forget," Cas smirks, "It is I who _allows_ your Kingship. So long as I find you needful and pleasing."

He places his other hand on Crowley's opposite knee, fingers burning little points of contact into the flesh as a greeting.

"Although I know you'd rather have me on my knees, Crowley. Is that the kind of game you brought me here to play?" Cas licks his lip, slowly. The truth of it is, Crowley looks good enough to eat on that throne. Cas wouldn't mind doing that. A furious series of images runs through his head of the various ways he can pleasure Crowley (and himself) in that opulent seat.

"Heaven is nothing without Hell, Cas, my dumpling. Remember who put that juice coursing through you there. Remember who is on your side, _God_."

Crowley's bouncing foot stills. His eyes dark with unrepressed want. Hands clutching the arms of his throne.

"I gave you your tribute. So now you give me mine."

Cas smiles, kindly this time. He takes the extra step up towards the elevated throne, and straddles Crowley's lap.

"One lapful of angel for my King of Hell," Cas purrs, leaning gracefully, into Crowley's ear. "Tell me what you want, majesty, so I can better serve you."

Crowley allows himself the indulgence of moving one hand to slide over the back of his neck and tangle in his hair. He pulls Cas' head back, exposing his throat. Eyes on the little swallowing, breathing movements.

"I'm the Devil," he reminds Cas. Voice deadly as any Reaper. "And I like to give people what they deserve. And when God sins, who else should take the punishment out on his glistening hide?"

He puts his free hand on Cas' knee, sending a blaze through the stitching on all his seams, burning them into little red wisps of smoke that makes his clothing literally fall from his frame.

Cas exhales and grinds down into Crowley's lap.

"Nice trick," he whispers, and swallows, enjoying the feel of Crowley's eyes on his neck. He knows he has a magnificent neck in this vessel. Swanlike, you could even say.

With one hand, he braces against the solid outlines of Crowley's chest, while the other snakes down to stroke his own cock, a few slow, measured strokes. He's showing off now, and that will probably escalate his punishment. Cas shuts his eyes and hopes.

Of course Crowley won't let him touch himself yet. Because he's not here for that. Cas' tie unwinds from around Cas’ neck and slides down around his wrist, tugging it away from his cock and hitching it to the arm of the throne.

Crowley bends and licks a slow, hot stripe over that neck. He tastes as good as ever and it makes his own cock stir against his angel's ass.

"You don't even feel sorry. Do you?"

"Not even a bit," Castiel admits, eyes smoldering and soft. He is watching Crowley's mouth, feeling the traces of it on his neck. Wanting, needing to feel more of it.

"Good. Because if you repent there's all that nonsense about forgiveness and blah, blah, blah."

Crowley doesn't believe in that. He believes in punishment. He puts a finger under his jaw and blazes a line down that tempting curve. He let's his finger pause and keep burning.

"So why don't you beg me to start?"

Castiel shivers with desire. The pain is merely an amuse-bouche for the rest of the banquet of debauchery they have planned.

"Hmm," he begins, grinding down against the friction of Crowley's expensive suit. "I've been a very dirty angel, Daddy. Please..." His mouth goes dry with anticipation. "Please give me my just desserts."

He leans in again, hoping to catch a taste of Crowley's sinfully lush lips.

Crowley leans in. Close enough that Cas can feel his breath tickling over his lips. Close enough that he can almost taste the lust.

He lets his own tie unravel from his throat and move to Cas' other wrist, knotting into place.

And then the two fling out and the angel is hoisted from his feet. Chains snake out and join with the fabric, arms at full stretch, his weight suspended from his wrists. Crowley pushes the remnants of his angel's clothes off to one side.

Crowley smiles.

"Tell me. Tell Daddy what you've done." He smirks into one crooked finger, struggling to restrain his glee.

Testing the chains, Cas strains his arms, making the veins stand out starkly against his skin. The hold is firm, comforting really, just the way he likes it.

He focuses his eyes on Crowley's again.

"I've... slaughtered some puppies to make a sexy rug for you. But they weren't as soft as bunnies." He pauses and licks his lips, thinking what other ridiculous sin to confess to. "I pleasured myself in the Impala. In the driver's seat. I came all over the steering wheel."

"Well," Crowley says, winding a finger around in the air, lifting one of the deliciously wicked floggers from the display rack. It glides over and snakes its way around Cas' leg from ankle to thigh. "The first thing you did wrong was by making a less sexy rug."

The flogger - hot pink again, with knots in the leather thongs - cracks sharply against one ass cheek. "And the second thing you did wrong?"

He should be getting up close and personal. He should. But the view is much better from here... and he's saving his favourite parts for later.

Cas bites his lower lip, practically cooing at the contact with the flogger. Crowley asked him a question, but it's rhetorical, like everything that comes out of Crowley's mouth. Cas knows what he _really_ wants to hear.

"Mmmm... thank you, Master."

Of course he has to be cute about it. That's another thing Crowley loves about him. If he was a pushover, he'd be as boring as Sunday School.

"Your second mistake was pleasuring yourself without permission. And your third was refusing to answer my question. Your fourth is because your face is too pretty."

The flogger snaps another three blows. Crowley waves it off and lets it stroke idly over Castiel’s rump.

The pause leaves Cas winded and flushed. Somehow, without the lash on him, he feels more naked than before. At least he's feeling pretty good about himself for making Crowley lose concentration and accuse him of having too pretty a face. He wouldn't mind getting punished for _that_ one some more, especially since looking pretty is so effortless.

"I also rode your favorite Hellhound without permission," he grins slyly. "I think he likes me. Sometimes, he nuzzles my balls, much like you do."  
Crowley doesn't even gesture. The flogger snaps, curling up between Cas' thighs to sting said balls.

"Bessie is not for you," he growls. "Am I going to have to invest in a chastity belt for you?"

He decides it's time to up the ante, and two manacles pop into existence, clamping around Cas' ankles and pulling his feet shoulder-width apart. "If you can't take good care of my property, then maybe you don't deserve it."

Cas has to wonder what exactly Crowley is referring to as his property: the hound or his balls. Probably his balls.

"Chastity is so unbecoming, my love," he finally replies, once the sting of the whip has faded to a pleasant tingle.

"But if you can't be trusted not to fornicate with anything remotely fornable, then you're not going to be my special little Disney Princess anymore... just some cheap, used whore."

He pushes to his feet at last, pacing closer on silent footsteps. He stands close. Very close. Close enough to grab Cas' balls and hold them. Tight.

"You know, I think we need a little mood music, don't you? Some candle-light... the screams of the damned... maybe I need to remind you what you're risking losing..."

He snaps fingers again and the demonic equivalent of Gregorian Monk Chanting fills the room. Then he lets go of his balls, paces behind him, and holds his hand out to receive the flogger. "Remember to make it good. Or maybe I'll find myself a nice little human or five hundred."

That's preposterous, really. Castiel knows Crowley is bluffing. Five hundred humans cannot compare to a single orgasm Castiel's Godhood has bequeathed upon his demon lover. He is distracted, everything is too distracting: the 'music,' the shackles, Crowley's hand which was just on his balls and now is doing Devil knows what. For a moment, he considers making it all disappear and just cramming his own cock down Crowley's gullet.

But where would the fun in that be?

Which is when - with the artistry of a _maestro_ , Crowley flicks the flogger in tune to the melodic screaming. Whip-crack. Whip-crack. Shoulder-first, trailing the tendrils down to tickle at his ass, before repeating.

"Cas... oh Cas... wake up, my bunny-boning beau..."

He does perk up at that, his limbs as well as his prick.

"Yes, lover?" His body is beginning to flood with the first bit of endorphins, but it's enough to make his mind feel pleasantly fuzzy. Like he might just do whatever Crowley wants him to. If only he could remember the original question...

"Are you even on this plane of existence, my mostly-absent God? Or were you off plotting another massacre?"

He wraps his arms around Cas' waist, and coils the leather flogger slowly around his cock. "Where's my Cassiopeia?" He tugs the leather tight, and yanks upwards.

Cas gasps at that, a sharp intake of breath, and he lets his head fall back onto Crowley's shoulder. He loves the press of the body behind him, it cradles him, the softness of suit in stark contrast with the shackles.

"Mmmm, yes, Master." He forces his mind to focus, it settles on the pressure around his cock. Yes, there it is. "What do you want me to do, darling?"

"I want you to write some more commandments for me. You think you can do that, my pecan-pie?" The leather goes tighter, then releases. "I mean. The current ones are so... boring."

Crowley paces away from him again. Mostly so he can stare at his pink ass. It is one of the perks of the job.

Blood rushes back to Cas' cock and he hangs his head, eyeing it with interest as it begins to ooze a thin trail of pre-cum.

"Uh..." It's still a little hard to focus, but he does want to please his lover so, "Thou shalt not wear knock-off Prada?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Someone has been looking into all the wrong popular cultures."

"Thou shalt covet thy neighbor's ass and all the other orifices?"

"Better. Unless it's a Winchester."

"Thou shalt not kill swiftly if thou canst kill slowly and painfully?"

"Cas... I hope you're going to get a prophet to put these on the internet."

"Thou shalt not tell a lie, not even a white lie, _especially_ not a white lie. Yes, your ass _does_ look fat in that outfit." He throws his head back and laughs at the harder swing of the lash against his skin. "Not you, beautiful. You have a delectable ass and it never looks fat."

Crowley lets the flogger slide down against his legs after the crack. "A reasonable save, but too late," is his assessment.

With the barest flicker of concentration, Cas is dropped from the ceiling - wrists still trailing the neckties - and his ankles let free.

"I suppose it was good enough. I was hoping for a public holiday of evil."

He feels simultaneously proud of his imagination and disappointed that Crowley has freed him of his bondage. However, with one look at Crowley's face, Cas is reassured that their fun is nowhere nearly over yet. Nope, by the looks of the way Crowley is licking his lips while all those wheels turn, practically visibly in his beautiful, evil brain, Cas can tell the fun's just getting started. He blows Crowley an aerial kiss from the floor.

"Go fetch you collar from the toy box like a good bitch," Crowley says, off-handedly.

He appears impassive. Until he winks winningly.

As if Cas is going to move anywhere. He didn't even get to the commandment where Sloth is now the Cardinal Virtue instead of a Deadly Sin. He barely flicks an eyebrow when the studded, pink monstrosity appears around his neck.

"Is this what you like, Daddy? Prefer this to the suit, do you?"

"Each has its time and place," Crowley answers.

He stalks back over to his throne and sits. And watches. And waits. He wants to see what Cas will do uninstructed, first.

Oh well then, Cas sees how his lover has decided to play it, and that's fine - he doesn't mind putting on a show for the King of Hell. He props himself off the ground, but only onto his hands and knees, arching and stretching his back like a sleepy cheetah. He crawls up towards the throne and teasingly rubs his head along Crowley's calf, foot to knee.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain," he purrs.

He should hide the smirk, but Cas all kittenish and cute is just too damn... Evil. Yes. Evil.

"Permission granted, sailor. Or should I say 'seaman'?"

Cas grins and rubs his face along Crowley's leg again, stopping to give his knee little feline nibbles, before bracing against his thighs with his long, graceful fingers.

"Thank you, Captain. With pleasure."

He rises and straddles Crowley's lap again, only this time, he doesn't wait for an invitation. He grabs on to the silken shirt and pulls the demon into a searing kiss that he's been waiting for since Crowley first summoned him via the nun.

He can indulge kisses. Briefly. Crowley's hand frames Cas' face as they slide tongues back and forth like witty banter or the souls of Winchester asses.

His other hand pushes down over Cas' arching back to his ass. Then lifts. Then spanks. He keeps his hand in place to make it sting more. And also to help with the smiley demon face he just burned into place.

Cas breaks off the kiss, turning his head back to see the brand swelling over his flesh before it dissipates like the rest of Crowley's marks, sinking in to mark him on the inside. He looks marginally scandalized.

"That was new," he mutters softly and replaces his mouth over Crowley's, chewing on his lower lip with tender precision.

Crowley's thumb slides over the healed flesh. He shrugs. He likes to sign his work. Some people see Jesus on toast. Crowley sees happy demons.

He pulls Cas back from his mouth. He could speak into his head, but why deprive the air of the sex that is his voice?

"Everyone's a critic. Would you rather I drew the Sistine equivalent of Demon cock reaching for the Divine one?" he asks, lifting his hand again.

For a moment, Castiel seems to consider this.

"Divine Docking?"

"I might need inspiration. Or someone else to paint it." Crowley shrugs. "Do you think we should do it in the Vatican, or should we get _really_ good at it... First..."

Such a shame half of Rome is warded. He slides his hand around to lie flat on Cas' belly.

"It's not warded against angels," Cas bats his eyelashes at Crowley with feigned innocence.

"Although," he looks down to the point where Crowley's hand is sending waves of warmth into his borrowed flesh. "I'm not opposed to perfecting our art first."

"Well, you could blaze a trail through for me. Later. When I know if it's worth the effort. I still smell of nun. Stupid bloody penguin." Crowley’s nose wrinkles.

His hand moves lower, nudging under Cas' little Cas. "Well," he says, rolling his eyes. "Due to your host's poor choice in testament, we're going to have to do this one way only." He rubs his thumb under the crown, and flicks his eyes next at his own pants. Which are still conspicuously closed.

Excitement flares up in Castiel's eyes. It's all very new and titillating to him this little game. He can't wait to find out how to play it. Almost shyly, he reaches towards Crowley's fly while bucking slowly into his touch.

"Let me?" He wasn't going to ask, but he knows this will make Crowley even hotter.

Like the indulgent and regal king of all he surveys that he is, Crowley nods. "You may."

But the ties are going to be in the way, so he sends them tumbling down to the floor to join their brethren, leaving Cas naked save for the collar around his throat.

He keeps his fingers where they are on Cas' cock for now, though, wanting them to brush in the short space between them. His other hand is on his angel's ass, to prevent him from becoming too excitable and falling back off the throne and his lap. It's a big throne, but he also knows Castiel gets over-stimulated easily. And that might end the fun too fast.

Crowley likes it when Cas takes some of the initiative. He likes calling the shots, sure, but there's something so deliciously decadent about being wanted. Something so sincere.

Cas' hands are quick like flapping bat wings. Before Crowley can even protest and tell him to hold his horses, Cas is holding his cock. With both hands, mind you. Practically cradling and caressing it like a little broken-winged bird. Cas' eyes are smiling, sending little spider webs out at the creases.

"There's my big boy," Cas coos at the swollen prick, adoringly. His gaze flickers to Crowley's face again, almost in a childlike way, as if he is unsure if he's allowed to play with his new toy.

Crowley shifts under his weight. Fuck. Fuck, but that's hot. The fingers. The smile. The obvious care taken over him. He's particularly fond of that part of him, after all. Always has been. Always will be. It's nice when other people also are fond of it.

He lets go of Cas' dick, just to slide his hand over the angel’s'. "King, remember." He will keep pointing this out until people remember properly. Not because he's insecure. But because he's King.

He rubs his thumb over the joint of Cas', sending a little tendril of hellfire heat into his palm. “You're not going to break it off, you know. Or do you need me to show you how it's done?"

He guides Cas' hand to stroke his cock lazily slowly, and has to close his eyes at how ridiculously hot that is. Biting his bottom lip he swallows against a moan. "Come on, Cas. Before I decide I want to re-enact the Noodley Appendage instead."

Cas isn't even going to bother pointing out he definitely doesn't understand that reference (though it sounds somewhat erotic). Instead, he wraps his clever fingers tightly around the shaft and strokes. He's not shy about it either, his eyes becoming darker as he gets into the swing of it. His thumb especially seems to have a mind of its own, judging by what he's doing to the foreskin and Crowley's flushed cockhead.

When Cas gets with the program, he really bloody does. He doesn't hide the moan this time, instead giving in to being as utterly vocal with his pleasure as he can. His growl is sandpaper over sunburnt skin rasp.

"You... have..." Cas looks like he's concentrating quite hard as he speaks. "A beautiful... cock...your majesty." His other hand find Crowley's nutsack and squeezes it firmly.

Crowley grabs Cas' face and holds him nose-to-nose. Being a demon means focussing isn't hard.

He should say something polite. "I know." He smashes his mouth to Cas', biting his lip until his angel lets him in. He wants to be doing things with his prick, so using his tongue will have to be his temporary substitute as he fights the rising urge not to _let_ , but to _take_.

And Cas moans into the kiss, tongue-wrestling, but not for dominance - for play. His thumb is now doing something wholly unholy, which might be dangerously close to sounding.

"More," Cas growls and fixes Crowley with his sea-blue stare, expectantly. He grinds against his lover again, to remind him of his own neglected cock.

"Well, you are a needy little bitch. It's a good job I didn't get you spayed."

He keeps holding Cas' face close, then reaches between them. His clothed wrist brushes over Cas' bare one. His fingers curl gently around his proud, hard length. One slow, ice-age slow stroke. Another. His eyes heavy-lidded.

"Pull," he tells him. "We need to cross streams, my fae. I want to feel you inside me. I'm. A big boy. I got room."

Cas looks like he's about to salivate, his mouth slightly agape, lips even pinker than usual, eyes clouded with mounting desire.

He does as he's told though, and he pulls, fingers massaging the throbbing, veiny shaft as he does so.

Crowley's leg shakes with the tension. He has to count to seventy times seven in his head to get some semblance of order.

His hand clenches and strokes Cas harder. Faster. Then he shifts them so they're lined up, holding him still and grinding his thumb along the sensitive line he knows makes Cas' knees weak.

"Angel-mine, Heavenly One, if you don't fucking do it I'm going to rip you a second one so I can fuck you without you enjoying it. _Dear_." He sounds murderously horny.

Well Cas might as well be fucked if he knows what he's doing, but what the Hell with a capital H, not like he can cause Crowley any _permanent_ damage. He tugs again, lining Crowley's prick up with his own, slit to seeping slit.

"I.... uh....." The thing is - it's possible that Crowley has scrambled his brain with all the sex. "Fuck," he concludes.

Crowley can sense the hesitation and coming hot on the heels of all his bravado and bluster... seeing his proud God-boy faltering and vulnerable... It stokes a long-forgotten protective streak.

He kneads the back of Cas' neck. Just because they're both more-than human doesn't mean they should be stupid about having fun, and they need to be careful.

"Relax, darling. Daddy will show you how it's done."

He moves one of Cas' hands so the angel holds himself still, then he slides his fingers in the gaps between Cas' on his own cock. Without a word (he should be making some sarcastic comment, some nasty little joke at his inexperience and bluster) he guides Cas to slowly stretch his sheath. Cas is already leaking enough that he's slick. He swipes his thumb over the heads and smears them both liberally, knowing it will help.

It takes some concentration to do because there's so many fingers there, but he eases the skin up and up and (stop breathing, don't breathe) over the tip of his angel's. It eases around the flare and then snuggles tight around him, holding their dicks together. He uses Cas' hand to massage up and down, and it sort of blurs where one ends and the other begins, coaxing a moan out of him when he works out he's jerking them both off in one.

"Fuck!" Cas repeats, but this time with a voice full of glee and wonder. His eyes two glowing planets, radiating worlds of desire back at Crowley.

Cas sways a bit, his free hand clenching right on Crowley's shoulder, coming forehead to forehead, breath shallow.

"That... feels awesome," he mutters, that lost boy look still on his flushed face.

Crowley's laugh is genuinely happy. "I think you should put this on the agenda for when you meet his Holiness. Not to _do_ it, just to tell him how his God loves sticking his love-stick where no angel has before."

He runs his fingers around the sensitive shapes below the taut skin, even when it makes his hips strain. It's just such a perfect metaphor for... well... them.

Cas smiles and bites his lip again, softly keening into Crowley's ear, his hips swaying in a slow grind.

"Mmmmyes, they should teach it in Sunday School," Cas whispers, still looking blissed-out, "And maybe do this instead of Communion. I mean... that flatbread is disgusting. And so... flat. It's highly anti-erection." He wonders where such lofty contemplation came from, briefly, until he laughs and starts to orgasm into his own special dick-cozy.

The stunningly witty riposte dies on an out-breath that comes like a kick to the sternum.

Crowley lasts just heartbeats more when he feels the hot, sticky mess of angel-cum splashing over the tip of his own dick and filling the happy little sock of joy wrapped around them both.

He wanks furiously, the jizz making it messy and lovely, and with a grunt he spends himself too. His hand slows to gradual pumping, their mixed emissions leaking out with each tug on his prick.

"I hope you plan on cleaning up, Cas," he muses hoarsely. "You made a mess of art."

Not surprisingly, Cas doesn't appear to be giving a fuck about the Twinkie situation, or whose cream goes where. He has an adorably _stupid_ smile on his face, devilish glee coloring his features. He slumps like a ragdoll in Crowley's lap, limbs flung out and scattered, chest heaving and pressed against Crowley's (still fully attired) chest, face burrowing into Crowley's neck.

"I'll clean it up when I'm done with you," he purrs, hands coming up to caress Crowley's solid chest muscle, smearing his favorite suit with thick, creamy streaks of their commingled juices. "I'm not done with you," Cas adds, by way of an explanation.

"Do you have any idea how much this suit costs? I mean. If you buy it?" Crowley looks scandalised at the mess. "I hate you, Cas. I really do. No wonder Lucifer lead the rebellion if this is what you guys think about true _beauty_."

He catches Cas' hand by the wrist, then pulls it in to lick it clean. His tongue snaking out and swirling around one digit at a time. He cleans diligently, eyes closing as he focuses on finding the taste of angel underneath spunk.

Cas watches intently, that familiar glimmer of a hidden smile in the corners of his eyes. He loves the feel of Crowley's tongue, even on something so inconsequential as his vessel's digits.

"You lie. You are the father of lies. Or at the very least the uncle of them." Hm, yes, avuncular, that's what Crowley is for you. "You love me."

Crowley nips hard on Cas' middle digit, drawing a single drop of blood. He leans back and holds that finger between them.

"You mistake me for Lucy, my currant bun. I'm the step-father, the cool one. I come in and bone the MILF and ignore all the boring parental responsibility..."

He kisses his finger better, soothing the hurt, and painting his lips with the faintest trace of red. "I love fucking you. In much the same way as I love fucking anything."

That - hurts? Not in a 'feelings' way, Cas doesn't think, because he had managed to purge the last of those (or so he hopes). But simply because he cannot stand being lied to.

He snaps his fingers, clearing their bodies (and Crowley's sartorial delights) of all their emissions. Before Crowley can make another snide remark, he snaps again. This time Cas is sporting his own suit once more, one of the dove grey ones that Crowley got him earlier and that he had so ingeniously disintegrated in the beginning of their session. And the pink collar is gone into the ether.

"I was wrong. It turns out I _am_ done with you." He makes a move to get off Crowley's lap.

Crowley's surprised by how obvious Castiel is being, for someone outwardly showing nothing at all. The sudden blankness on his face. The level emptiness of his tone. It's more effective than... hell. Crowley doesn't remember feeling so whipped since his _wife_. And _she_ had the audacity to produce a mewling baby and complain about his girth when he hit double digits. Castiel's only sin is being God. And a God who - for once - _listens_.

Before he can second-guess himself, he grabs Castiel's finger-snapping wrist and coils his hand around it. Then he balls the hand into a fist to prevent any more. He knows Cas doesn't need his fingers to work magic. Knows it's all for show. But it's the symbolism. The gesture.

"Really?" Crowley asks, with more pain showing than he wants. No. It's another lie. No the first thing wasn't a lie. This is the lie. He just wants to hurt Cas and fuck him. Yes. That.

Shit.

"You just want to fuck and go? You're making me feel dirty, Cas."

Cas is silent, looking at the place where Crowley's fingers are curled over his own. What do you do when the Devil asks you not to leave? And the worst part is, of course, he doesn't actually _want_ to leave. He wants to be naked again, and curled up into Crowley's lap, like a Siamese cat, maybe nibbling on his earlobe as he drifts off. Not to sleep, per se, because neither angels nor Gods do that, but just to that place where he can look at himself through someone else's eyes and like what he sees. He _likes_ himself with Crowley.

He swallows. "Well... I have at least one planet to run." His voice has faltered - he had shown his hand. But what of it? His cock has been _inside_ the demon's own cock (or something delectably close to it), who cares if Cas just spits out the shriveled vestige of his heart into the palm of Crowley's hand?

"You spend more time running it than the last God," Crowley points out. He rubs with his thumb. His tongue flickers out to taste the sweat on his upper lip. "You can let it run to Hell for a while. Gives you something to look good fixing."

Yes. Focus on the work.

"You can stay a bit longer. Hey. Maybe you can even pass it off as a work expense. Wining and dining. Trying to save a broken soul...?"

He puts his other hand on Cas' knee and tries to look (fake, of course) endearing and hopeful.

Something flashes in Castiel's eyes - a fleeting spark of danger, perhaps. He should go. No, but Crowley is giving him the perfect excuse to stay. But he's a divinity and his - no, dammit, not feelings - sense of justice has been hurt. He can't surrender this easily. He licks his lower lip, biting over it briefly in contemplation.

"Well... I suppose it can wait a few more minutes," he offers. Besides, he hasn't even gotten to fuck Crowley in the ass yet. Come to think of it, not ever. His sense of justice feels prickled again. He unfurls the fingers of his hand and suddenly they're palm to palm. Yeah, he can do this, he can stay a few more minutes.

There is nothing going on. Nothing at all. It's just that if you're the King of Hell, then really the only person who comes close to being your equal has to be your opposite. Fucking underlings leads to awkward end of year appraisals and demons are likely to stab you in the back while you stab them in the back. They're not good for frolicking with. And humans are pathetic and weak and don't last very long. It's just mutually assured stress relief. Networking. Winding God around his finger to get what he wants. Playing the long game. Winning.

_Shit but he likes seeing the hurt in Cas' eyes. Likes seeing the pain. He put it there on purpose. He lashed out. He knows this, deep down. He knows he hurt Cas just to prove he could. To prove it... was doable._

"I might need more than a few minutes," Crowley says, drawl mostly back but with a weakness he tries to cover over. "I'm not some pengnun. You might never redeem me, but if you're all la-de-dah about your exclusive boring people Heaven Club, then you should probably keep trying. Just in case one day it works." His smile is as crooked as his heart. His heart which is currently hammering in his chest with the ridiculous hope that maybe Cas does want... that. He's certainly twisted enough that they're doing some fucking Vulcan impersonation with their hands which is maybe the gayest thing he's seen since Judas.

Cas grips Crowley's hand and pulls him up and out of the throne. He wants to yell at him, to call him a liar; a big, fat, lying liar, pants on fire, literally not figuratively. Because Cas knows he loves fucking him, and that he loves fucking him a lot more than he loves fucking anything else, and that means something if you're the King of Hell. And just the mere unfairness of even having to think about it makes Castiel's eyes sting. He doesn't come here to think. That's part of the beauty of being chained up and at Crowley's mercy.

Except for those moments when they're so close, and it feels like every single part of them is touching. And he knows that he doesn't have a soul and that Crowley's has been so perverted by Hell that to call it a soul would be like calling a tomato a tennis ball, but something is tugging at his insides and it wants to _mate_. There's no other way of describing it.

"What have you done to the bed?" he finally asks, trying to retain composure, and looking around the hot pink imaginarium.

Crowley wants to resist. Wants to say no. He calls the shots. He always calls the shots. It's what he does. It's what being the Leader is all about. It's one of those things. No longer having to follow. No longer being able to hide your head in the sand. Being responsible for things. Making decisions.

(Maybe it is not so bad to occasionally let Cas think he can make decisions. He can indulge him. It's part of the dance.)

He stands - proudly - feeling his stature again. It normally doesn't bother him. It does right now.

"I was trying to make it all homey for you," Crowley shrugs. "You know. With the constant self-flagellation you angels get up to. I thought I'd make it like a second home for you." He snaps his fingers and the wall rotates around, concealing one of the torture racks. And displaying the most ludicrously Barbie's Whore House bed you ever saw in your life. It has silk sheets and heart-shaped pillows. He shrugs. "This is what you're into, right?"

Castiel wrinkles his nose in indignation. He might have preferred the torture rack. He opens his mouth to say so to Crowley when the look in his lover's eyes stops him short.

 _He's winning._ No, it's not really a game. Well, it is. And it isn't. He wasn't even consciously aware that he was playing it until he realized that he was _winning._

"It'll do," he states, simply, eyes narrowing. He brings up his other hand and strokes gently across the prickly hairs of Crowley's jaw. It's somewhere in that stage between an ungroomed goatee and a full-on beard. It makes Cas want to stay and take care of him. Grooming - such primate behavior. Definitely beneath them both. He turns before he has anymore foolish thoughts, dragging Crowley behind him towards the foot of the...bed, to put it generously.

The touch to his face makes things ache inside. He's not really engaging with the - fear? - disappointment? - that Cas leaving before they were both... happy... caused. But he does take continued touching as a good sign, and it makes him feel wanted again.

Crowley squawks slightly in protest at being dragged along. "Who said romance was dead?" he complains, but he goes anyway. "You make a nice little love-nest, you get all the best mod-cons, you don't have to rent out some nasty hotel room with sordid sheets, you keep him away from your siblings..."

Because it's not like he has parents to bring Cas in front of. He's the end of the line. In more ways than one.

Cas turns on his heels quickly, bringing himself practically nose to nose with Crowley.

"Stop talking," he orders, his eyes cold.

The sudden proximity makes Crowley jump, but only internally. Externally he stands his ground. Even if his eyes go wary.

Then, a magical sunshiney thing happens - the corner of Cas’ mouth twitches upwards, and the permafrost melts from his eyes. He tips his head down until their noses are touching.

Crowley's about to snap something sharp and rude when - the fuck? Cas is smiling again? Maybe he does like pink? Crowley makes a mental note to get more pink things. Even if they are horrific and make his eyes bleed.

"I want a thing," Cas mumbles, and before Crowley can give him any lip, he takes his lips in between his own lips, molding them to the shape of his own mouth. "And you've been... well... rather insouciant today." It's not even entirely true, because moments before Crowley went and basically _ruined it_ like the _asshole_ he is, Cas wouldn't have accused him of anything remotely resembling indifference. But, see, this is why he had to be punished, bad demon.

"Any specific thing?" he asks. "Because that's a rather broad spectrum of potential 'things'. You might have to be more specific, or Santa will bring you a Furbie, and I know for a fact that Hell produced those." Still. This is better than leaving. Unless Cas plans on leaving him in flagrante delicto. In which case, Crowley _will_ destroy the universe.

"I'll tell you," Cas' voice is silky smooth now and tickles the skin behind Crowley's ear. "But first..." He snaps his fingers. "You have to be more naked."

Crowley shrugs. "Alright. As long as you don't intend on letting any Furbies watch us. Because I might be the Devil but I'm not a sick fuck, Cas."

He looks arch at the sudden nakedness, and hopes the clothes are in a better place. Not Heaven though. Except maybe the jockstrap. He'd like it if that landed on some prim little angel bitch's nose.

"Does this plan involve you naked, too?"

Cas' voice is gruff but teasing. "Is that where your line is? Furbies?"

He kind of enjoys the shift in the stylistic dynamic more than he expected. He's used to being the one naked and writhing while Crowley slowly takes him apart. He's never been the one still dressed. He trails his fingers gently from the top of his lover's exposed clavicles to the lower curve of his abdomen, enjoying the downy pelt his vessel is sporting there.

"Alas, what I have in mind does, indeed, require me to remove... if not all, then... some... of my clothes," Cas expounds and pushes Crowley backwards until the King of Hell's knees knock against the pink monstrosity and he falls over backwards into the cornucopia of pillows.

"I have many lines. Possessed fluffy alien monster toys is one of them." A shrug. "So is macaroni."

His eyes are narrowed again, all untrusting snake. He feels uncomfortably exposed and not gloriously proud. It's not entirely a fun sensation, even if it means touchy-feely time.

(What if he leaves?)

He props himself up on his elbows on the bed, and then in a blink, Cas' clothes vanish again. So there. "I prefer you in this suit."

"Oh, don't be such a child," Cas pouts, re-materializing the clothing of his suit. "You can't bear this, can you? Not knowing what I'm going to do next? Giving up control?" He straddles Crowley, rubbing up against him in his (shockingly trendy, but hey, Crowley takes his Sugar Daddy duties seriously) Tom Ford suit. "Well, this is what it's supposed to feel like..."

Cas doesn't finish because he can't. He's a child too. The only difference is, his lover hasn't asked him to say it yet. To say _the thing_.

"Do you trust me?" he asks. He supposes, in the end that's all it really comes down to. Dean didn't trust him (in related news, Dean might deserve another cum graffiti on the Impala). And, Cas supposed, at the end of the day, he didn't really trust Dean either (bonus cum stain or not). But he did trust _Crowley_ to get them to Purgatory, and the smug bastard _did_.

"It's not childish," Crowley pouts. "It's strategic forward thinking. You look hot when you're butt-naked." Pause. "You should be flattered."

He was going to push back up until Cas straddles him, surprised by how decadently nasty Cas' suit on his skin feels. He holds onto Cas' shoulder and hip, writhing under him to get more force.

In a moment of unusual clarity, Crowley's eyes are an open playbook. "Demon, remember. _The_ demon. Devil. Old Nick. Not exactly a man for whom trust is a big thing." Swallows. "...but in my last position in the company, it did require slavish adherence to contractual obligations of the soul-selling variety."

Maybe that will be enough? Why is Cas even asking? This - other than his little coup, or his initial Fall - is the riskiest thing he's ever done. Sex is sex, but sex with someone charged with thousands of souls who may at any minute welch on your deal and who could cause untold havoc to you or your Kingdom? And Cas has to _ask_?

Cas presses him further into the pillows.

"I know," he breathes out into the hollow between Crowley's clavicles. "I wouldn't trust me either. I have already betrayed you once." Cas presses his mouth almost reverently to the skin of Crowley's neck, then travels down to his chest, all open-mouthed kisses searing into his flesh. "But I won't this time. I want this. I want..." His mouth hovers for a moment, then descends over the dark bud of Crowley's nipple. "You. I want you. You can trust me in that."

That's underhanded and almost worthy of Hell. Crowley wonders if maybe this partnership is more than just mutual convenience. Wonders if Cas is just the same as he is. Wonders if it really is an actual... partnership.

It would be... strange.

He bucks violently under Cas' mouth. God but he feels good. He moves to hold the nape of his neck, thighs spreading as much as they can with Cas over him. Grinding up against that pretty suit.

"I want me too," he croaks out, hoarsely. "I can't fault your judgement in that respect."

He can't engage with past hurts. They meant nothing. Nothing. Ever.

Cas bites. It's the least he can do, given that a part of him still wants to bolt. He thinks that's something people say.

He feels Crowley twitch underneath him, keeping the nipple between his teeth. He tugs just to make his point abundantly clear before letting go.

"You're incorrigible. Also - an idiot."

Cas runs his hands down his demon's flanks, until they skim past his hips and settle on the thighs. He presses into the mattress and spreads Crowley wide beneath his weight, hands lazily caressing the flesh from knee to the hip as he settles in between.

He bites his own lip to whittle the noise down to a hiss of tangled pleasure-pain.

"Lesser beings than you have disintegrated for saying that," Crowley muses. "And besides. You love... when we fuck, too."

A little awkwardly, Crowley lets Cas settle there. He's back to feeling exposed again, which has less to do with the position than it does the mood. He props himself half up on his wrists.

Cas is watching him with that angel head tilt of his. He looks like he could go either way: pounce or flee. He chooses to simply push Crowley back into the plushness around them.

He glances down at his own state of dress and at Crowley, whose big boy is definitely beginning to stir against his suit. He does love when they fuck but that's insufficient. He wants more.

"I want inside you," the new God declares, as if it wasn't already abundantly obvious. "And I want you to ask me in nicely."

"You already have been," Crowley replies. "Don't you remember? Was it so good for you it blew your mind?"

He realises he's being ridiculously difficult, but he's...

He's...

Afraid.

And it's a difficult thing. He's often concerned for his survival, but not in connection with something he's willingly chosen. Like Castiel. This is all his own doing. "You want to do it again? We're going to Vatican City?"

Cas should be a merciful God. He feels the flesh trembling beneath his hands as he kneads it. He should pull back, put Crowley out of his misery. But he won't.

Instead, he trails his mouth across Crowley's chest to suck and bite the other nipple. Symmetry is a beautiful thing.

"No," he finally replies, hands massaging the globes of the demon's ass. And this is really the point at which he should remove his suit because, despite Crowley's obvious trepidation, he's leaking all over the fine cloth. "We're going to Hades." Cas presses his point forward so that even through the veil of his clothing, Crowley can feel it - proud and straining and expectant.

"We're already there," Crowley defers, though he's being obtuse as he knows full well what Cas means.

He moves without thought. His body betraying his obvious need and forcibly rejecting the panic at the back of his head. He pushes his legs wider, grinding against Cas' clothed crotch. The fine fabric on tender skin a ridiculously delectable sensation.

And Cas can't help himself because that look in the demon's amber eyes is everything he never knew he wanted. "You are so beautiful like this," Cas whispers, lips pressing butterfly kisses to the pulse point of Crowley's neck.

Crowley laughs at the compliment. He knows he is. Physically, anyway. He picked this meatsuit for a reason. He's very fond of it. It's probably his longest-serving vessel.

Hands on his angel's shoulders. Scratching at the grey monstrosity covering his radiant hide.

"You sure know how to romance a girl," he remarks. "Next you'll bring me flowers and chocolates and promise you'll make me see stars first..." And if he sounds flattered, it's part of the act. Not because it soothes something inside.

"Shut up, Crowley," Cas growls against his lips, stealing his breath, and words, and - oh my - tongue. Cas is kissing Crowley like he fights, he's a soldier of Heaven, he takes no prisoners.

The sudden fierceness is nice. Comforting. He can lose himself in the passion behind Cas' lips. Lose himself in the steady push of his tongue. It's a good job he doesn't need to breathe. A damn good job.

Cas figures now would be a good time to lose his pants. But, again, symmetry - he should just lose the whole suit. He keeps the tie though because, frankly, he thinks it pretty and Crowley did insist that it brings out his eyes. He grinds up against his demon, warm naked flesh to quivering flesh, and tries to kiss the fear out of him.

And naked angel is still better than clothed angel. Naked angel is all warm and salty. Crowley drags fingernails down shoulders and over biceps, stark pink lines of ownership.

Crowley lifts his legs to wrap around Cas, locking ankles behind his ass and using this as leverage for more frotting.

 _Would you damn well get on with it if you insist on doing it?_ he asks, voice going straight into Cas' head. Because of the kissing. Not because he doesn't want to hear himself ask. _You better make it good._

Cas pulls off his mouth, only to kiss the deeply furrowed frown lines on his forehead. He should do a better job keeping his game face on, he knows, but his demon is just so _adorable_ sometimes. "You're my favorite thing to have ever been consigned to the tar pits of Hell," he murmurs, and, before Crowley can change his mind, he probes at the demon's pucker with a conveniently mojo-slicked finger and retakes his mouth with his lips. He quickly adds another one, stretching Crowley with teasingly slow strokes, free hand yanking back on his lover's hair to crush their teeth again in a warlike clash. Cas moans into Crowley's mouth, thinking of the tightness around his digits, and what it might finally feel like to have that channel stretched and clamped over his querying cock which is angrily poking Crowley in the tender flesh of his upper thigh.

"Too... kind..." Stop being nice to me, Crowley thinks.

And then he stops thinking. Because Cas' finger starts breaching him. His immediate reaction is to tense around the intrusion. Even if it feels good... He's Crowley. King of all Damnation. Lord of Sin. Step-father of Lies. Second (?) only in Creation to whatever passes for God. No. Not second. Never second. Even if it feels good it's not the sort of thing you want people to know. How could he continue to command the respect of the legions of evil if they knew his legs shook when the erstwhile-angel-now-divinity shoved digits where the sun didn't shine?

Or that he sucks on Cas' tongue as much as he does his cock? Or that he holds onto him with trembling hands as he passes saliva back and forth? Or that it feels goddamn incredibly awesome?

And if they ever found out his reaction was the intimate mental push of the word _More_ , as he fucked his ass open on Cas' fingers and felt empty without his cock inside?

He'd probably be busted down to the Satanic equivalent of the old Word Paperclip. 'So it looks like you want to commit a sin? Do you need any help? Yes / No.'

He wants more? Cas can give more, much more. He's up to three digits now, which research and his own experience has demonstrated to be sufficient (even with Crowley's massive Punisher). He curls his fingers, brushing against the King of Hell's prostate, dragging an animalistic moan out of him.

Crowley's eyes roll up in his head when Cas' lovely little (not so little) fingers swirl inside him. The moan is heartfelt and open, as is the way he writhes hungrily. More. So much more.

"Hmmm, baby, I'm gonna ride you so hard," Cas whispers into Crowley's mouth, teeth dragging along the lips and jaw, sliding to the neck to worry the sensitive flesh over his cords.

He bares his throat to Cas' mouth, enjoying the way the slight pain just sharpens the pleasure. "Oh, I wish you _would_ ," he purrs, forgetting he's not supposed to say so. "I've been saying for years that Heaven stiffed me. About time it was enjoyable."

More teasing. More? Fucking... "CASTIEL, in the name of all that is unholy and beautiful, would you _stick_ that thing _in_ me?”

Cas suspects if he doesn't get on with it, Crowley might try (and fail) to kill him. As amusing as it would be, what a mood-ruiner. Cas quickly prepares himself and guides his divining rod towards Crowley's stretched out hole. It's practically winking at him.

“If you're going to do it, you better do it well. Or I'll be forced to teach you how to do this, too..."

Cas fucks his mouth with his tongue, the voice of divine rage in his brain, _Don't you ever shut up?_

And then he slides in, and it's - _oh_. So this is why Crowley is fond of sticking his cock in tight places. He moans into Crowley's mouth and sucks on his tongue as if it was his cock, hips slamming in roughly. Again. Faster. Yes, yes, _more_ , harder.

"Take it!" he growls into the demon underneath him. Oh Heavens, this feels so good, Cas could do this all day. He loves this as much as he loves Crowley inside himself. He just loves... _shit_.

 _Only if you make me_ , Crowley flashes back at him. And my, wouldn't that be an interesting proposition. Upping the ante until he can't even think...

Maybe by doing something like shoving his pretty, fat cock in? Oh yes. It makes him feel all full and... apparently not very intelligent. Because all the words in his head turn into yespleasemorefuckyespleaseCasplease. He's probably broadcasting all of that loud enough for anything sentient in a hundred mile radius to hear and get empathetically, telepathically horny as fuck. Hell. If there isn't a boom in babies nine months from now, Crowley would make someone else eat their hat.

He tangles hands in Castiel's hair, grasps his shoulders, pulls him in as tight as he can. He can't get enough. Of anything. He needs Cas to keep doing this. A lot. Forever. Needs that look in his eyes. Loves it. Loves seeing it. Loves _feeling_ it. "YES!" he snarls. "CAS. Give it to me. Give it to me **all**." _Don't stop, don't ever stop, don't leave, don't leave, please, God, don't...._

Cas has no intention of stopping, of _ever_ stopping, he's in it to win it, he doesn't even have to 'fake it till you make it' because he's _so_ far beyond pretending this is anything other than what it is. A love of some sort. He is inside Crowley and simultaneously it's as if Crowley is also inside him. Like that time that Crowley loaned him all those souls from Hell to sway the momentum in his war against Raphael. It's as if, he likes to think, one of those souls was Crowley's. And maybe it was.

"I love you," he gasps out as he starts to propel shot after shot of his jizz into his lover's channel, careless of how cliché it sounds, utter disregard for regret or rejection or _shame_ of any kind. "Fuck, I love you so much..."

What the everliving, sweet baby Jesus fucking death kittens on a merry-go-round Hell? Crowley isn't even processing the sudden wet, sticky, messy angel-cum in his ass. His eyes go wide at the crap Cas is spouting. Surely it's just the sex talking. He does have an amazing ass, it's true. And it is hot to fuck the leader of all of damnation and papercuts. And you do say some stupid-as-fuck things when you're in the middle of making merry with the reverse pie-hole.

One sharp brow rises so high it nearly takes off. "...?"

There's a special skill in being able to voice a complete interrogation without saying a word at all. Crowley has that skill.

Before Cas has any chance at answering, though, Crowley's grabbed his own cock (because if Cas won't see to it, he will) and jerks it sharply. Once. Twice. He didn't need much. Not with the look on his lover's face. Not with the broken breathing (a habit, not a necessity) and leaking cock and nasty, lying words.

"...fuckyesCasohGODyesInnnghhhhh--"

Demons don't love. Can't love. No soul. No soul, no love. Right? Then what the hell is he feeling other than incredible in the dick? Because when he spills all over his hand and Cas' belly, it's not just his dick and ass that throb. It's... _feelings_.

And Cas has turned himself into a meat-blanket, no regard whatsoever for all the sticky between their bodies. He's still inside Crowley, his own cock taking its time deflating as Cas continues the slow, post-orgasmic grind into him, as if his body is on autopilot that someone had forgotten to deactivate.

His eyes are closed and his nose is burrowed in the space between Crowley's jaw and shoulder, breath tickling the neck. He wonders what Crowley's asshole looks like, with his cock still in it, leaking with his emissions. He thinks it probably looks beautiful and he releases a sigh of contentment, hands stroking his lover's sweat-sheened flanks.

"I do," he murmurs, almost sleepily, "You know. I really do." He burrows his nose in even closer and Crowley can feel the palpitating of his eyelashes against his skin. "Please don't say anything stupid right now. _Please._ "

Crowley lets go of his own cock and... well. He smears the remainder of the evidence over his own thigh rather than mess his angel up any more. It would feel wrong to use him like a towel or something. The gentle rocking against him sending lingering sparks of bliss flooding through his vessel. No. It's more than his vessel. He's never felt more at home than he does in this one. And never felt more at home in it, than when he is with Cas. Deep down he knows it's borrowed - well, stolen - but that's not the point. The point is... it's _his_. And he feels it's right more than the body he was born into, all those many years ago.

Cautiously, he drapes his arms over Cas. His God-angel not seeming in any hurry to move, happily still coupled to him. It feels... right. Soothing, even. His breathing evens out, even as his heart rate doesn't.

"You have the most ridiculous taste in emotional attachments," Crowley replies. Because it's true. He's... well. Him. Soulless Lord of the Pit. Not the kind of person you admit to even having a crush on, let alone... things. "It's probably just the sex talking. Or you're trying to make me feel good, or... trying to win me over or something..."

Even if his voice shakes more than he wishes it would. Which is not at all. Still. He hasn't outright denied or rejected it. He just... can't.. believe it. He wants to clutch him tight. Wants Cas to wrap his wings around them both and hide them from the world. Wants to believe that maybe... maybe.. he could be? But the risk of pain and rejection is just too fierce and all-consuming for him to let himself feel hope. Instead it's the cloud of terror threatening to consume what's left of him still capable of feeling.

Please, is the unspoken prayer, unacknowledged even in his own head. Please don't hurt me. Please don't betray me. Please just love me.

"I told you not to say anything stupid," Cas mumbles, tongue sneaking out and giving Crowley's neck a sharp lick, like that's supposed to be some kind of reprimand. His arms tighten around the body underneath him and he's not moving, nope, he's going nowhere, he's fine right here, thanks. And the rest of the world can burn the slow burn while he just lays right there, with his head under Crowley's chin.

With a flicker of his mind, he causes Crowley's arms to tighten across his own back, humming contentedly. And then, as if he wouldn't be trying to eavesdrop on Crowley's deepest thoughts, as if he could help himself - ha - he unfurls his wings, pulling them into the physical plane with their bodies. And by _God_ , they're enormous, radiant, and black as Crowley's own soul. He stretches them out, like tired limbs, letting them fill the room, and then curls them around the two of them, letting his feathers caress the planes of his lover's body.

"I'll watch over you," he whispers. "It's what I do."

Saying stupid things is more or less what Crowley does best in the whole world. Other than doing stupider things. Like selling his immortal, undying soul for lust. Or - apparently - his demonic half-life for... love?

He slides his fingers through the soft bower of feathers. He's never felt angel wings before, and he's surprised Castiel will let him. It feels even more intimate than touching his vessel, because they're the part of him that's always... him. And wrapped up in them, maybe he can start to feel safe.

Perhaps wisely, he keeps his mouth shut this time. Instead, he nods, and lets Castiel love him back.


End file.
